


The Hectic and Unpredictable Tendencies of Agnes Pulsifer-Device, infant

by Legs (InsanityRule)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Babysitting, F/M, Gen, Godparents Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-03 03:48:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19455721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanityRule/pseuds/Legs
Summary: "You didn't.""What? The last PG Tips? 'Fraid so," Crowley swirls his finger above his teacup as he miracles in a dollop of cream until the color goes murky tan. "I could miracle up another box if you like, though I know you love chatting up the clerk at the grocer's.""Not the tea, Crowley," though he does spare a longing glance at the cup, and one pitiful, beseeching look later he's opening the tea cupboard to retrieve the new box. "I mean Agnes.""Don't think I had a hand in that one.""Crowley," Aziraphale chides. "Agnes the second. The baby. The one you invited into our home without a single consultation." He'd only found out because Crowley finally acquiesced his insistence they use the calendar he's affixed to the freezer door.





	1. Chapter 1

A natural phenomenon common to a high percentage of families with young children is separation anxiety. Even more common is the phenomenon that said parents of young children experience this anxiety in far greater quantities, and for longer stretches of time. The average child forgets they've been left behind almost instantaneously after the introduction of a new, adequately stimulating toy. Their parents won't be able to unclench their jaws and enjoy their night on the town until they've visually confirmed nothing untoward has happened to their precious angel gift from God, capital G, meaning it really is just easier to stay in and watch the telly on mute after the baby's gone to sleep.

Five years following the Armageddon-that-wasn't, fifty percent of the Pulsifer-Device household is experiencing a remarkable amount of preemptive anxiety as he watches Anathema pack an overnight bag for Agnes Pulsifer-Device, seven and a half months following her unremarkable, miraculously smooth birth in the tiny, one room clinic in Lower Tadfield. The easiest way to avert this anxiety would be to unpack it faster than she can pack until she abandons the idea entirely. Unfortunately for Newton she thought of this ten minutes prior and handed him the baby to slow his unpack speed by approximately seventy percent. So far, this move has exceeded expectations.

Newton mumbles to himself as Anathema continues on, totally at ease, as every item ticks up his heart rate another beat per minute. "Nappies. Formula."

"And a few extra changes of clothes," Anathema says breezily.

"Oh, yes," he barks out a single, broken laugh, and continues with an equally fractured voice. "Someone's been experimenting with food art." Anathema pauses mid-fold to raise an eyebrow in his direction, and Newton gulps. "You're certain?"

"Yes."

"But are you really certain?"

She sighs and slaps her hands down into the bag. "Newton."

"I think it's my right to worry," he counters. "No, my duty-"

"Newton."

"It's not that they aren't lovely people- beings- people shaped beings," Newton takes a steadying breath, and Agnes gives a destabilizing shriek of delight as she discovers her hand fits in her mouth. "Celestial entities-"

"An angel and a demon, Newton."

"Right, real charmers," he smooths a hand through Agnes' wild mane of baby hair; it springs back up like she's touched a static ball at some point in her young life and never let go. "Really, they're wonderful, but I can't conjure up an image of them that includes a helpless, tiny human."

"They're perfectly capable. More than capable, considering. Can you think of anyone else you'd be certain could rescue an infant from a burning building?"

"Please don't say that," Newton whinges. "And I'm fairly certain Crowley can breathe fire, if his story's to be believed. Not exactly comforting."

"Agnes would have warned me. In fact, I'm fairly certain she said they could be trusted." ("Not sure she meant with this, love.") She slips three clean bottles into the side pouch. Newton's heart climbs into the upper nineties. "You agreed when I suggested they be the godfathers."

"I thought it was mostly symbolic, you know," he gestures vaguely with his free hand. "An olive branch."

"An olive branch?"

"I just think a little supportive evidence isn't out of the question," he sputters out. Agnes copies him with some impressive spit bubbles of her own.

"They've got some," Anathema produces a letter from her pocket and unfolds it for Newton to see. "Quite a glowing recommendation, and from a reputable source."

"Reputable, well, we'll just see," he leans in and squints at an impressively official seal in the right hand corner of the letter. "Is this real?"

-

"You didn't."

"What? The last PG Tips? 'Fraid so," Crowley swirls his finger above his teacup as he miracles in a dollop of cream until the color goes murky tan. "I could miracle up another box if you like, though I know you love chatting up the clerk at the grocer's."

"Not the tea, Crowley," though he does spare a longing glance at the cup, and one pitiful, beseeching look later he's opening the tea cupboard to retrieve the new box. "I mean Agnes."

"Don't think I had a hand in that one."

"Crowley," Aziraphale chides. "Agnes the second. The baby. The one you invited into our home without a single consultation." He'd only found out because Crowley finally acquiesced his insistence they use the calendar he's affixed to the freezer door.

"I consulted someone," he quips, lips pressed to the rim of his teacup, "myself."

"Crowley."

"I wanted to include you, but you-you were having a summit of your own with the mail carrier out on the walk." He takes a sip and grimaces, winding his finger back round the other direction to remove a portion of the cream. "So I declared a quorum and proceeded with the talks. Went well, mostly positive."

"You can't reach a majority without me when this household only has two votes."

"Could split myself," he holds up two fingers, faux marveling at them when he moves them apart in a scissor motion. "Like I said, I discussed the matter. Declared it closed-"

"You declared it closed when I asked what you were muttering about!"

"Anathema was on the phone, angel. Couldn't leave the girl hanging." ("You know you very well could.") "And anyway," he waves Aziraphale's negativity off like a persnickety fly in his ear, "it's not even a whole day. Just a few hours in the evening. Easy peasy."

"But I had plans for this evening," Aziraphale is telling the truth only on a technicality, as his solo plans are the same every evening, and do not involve going out unless Crowley is in the mood.

Unfortunately for Aziraphale, Crowley is well aware of this fact. "Plans, plans, what plans? You don't have plans."

"I do," he insists, though he won't meet Crowley's eyes until after he's firmly changed the subject. "You didn't need to call the American Ambassador, dear."

"Certainly didn't hurt. Got a letter out on rush delivery for his boy's favorite nanny."

"You were his only nanny, my dear." He pulls the electric kettle from its warmer and pours the steaming water over his tea bag to let it steep. "Is he even the Ambassador these days?"

"No." Crowley shrugs one shoulder. "Didn't stop him from keeping a nice stack of official letterhead when he left."

"Crowley," Aziraphale chides.

"I hardly had to tempt him," he scoffs. "And-and anyway, young Warlock turned out alright. Little ah, self centered-"

"He's a terror," Aziraphale insists. "Spoiled rotton, and not in the good way."

"The good way was your part," Crowley reminds him. "I'm the one with a garden, but you insisted-" his mouth drops open with shock- "are you afraid of children, Aziraphale?"

"No, of course not," he laughs weakly. "I love them."

"But only in that 'all God's creations' sort of way, eh?" Crowley tips back and opens his throat to let his tea slide down in one disgusting gulp. "Better from a distance?"

"They're very unpredictable, is all." Aziraphale frets with the edge of his waistcoat. "I really did have plans, Crowley."

"Right, right, the Kindle," Crowley mutters mockingly. "The whole point is you can take it anywhere, angel. I should know."

"The light in the library is perfect," Aziraphale insists. "As I should know."

"Of course, of course."

Through a thorough discussion and some clever use of some light temptation Crowley and Aziraphale made a compromise regarding his impossibly vast library jutting off the east wall of the cottage. (Impossible because no library should fit into the six by eight bedroom he converted upon their arrival, vast because Crowley can count on one hand the number of books Aziraphale ever sold in his shop.) Old editions and classics are one thing, but Aziraphale reads his contemporary fiction on the nifty handheld device of Crowley's design.

"Anyhow," Crowley stretches his gangly arms across the table and hooks his pinky round Aziraphale's pointer finger, "there's two of us and only one of her. You can always sneak off to do your reading when it's my turn."

Aziraphale turns hand palm up so Crowley can snake his fingers between Aziraphale's. "Your turn?"

"Thought we'd split it, fifty-fifty."

"Hrm."

"Sixty-forty?" He counter offers, and is met with equal distaste. "Fine, fine. I'll only call upon your particular expertise if we need a little extra divinity in any miracles that may or may not be needed. Can't imagine there being too many."

"I should hope not." He sighs. "The ex-Ambassador?"

"In my defense," he holds up a finger defiantly, "he was still the Ambassador when I was their nanny. Seems only right the recommendation be true to the time frame."

"I don't believe that's how it works, dear," he sighs again, though with a heaping spoonful of fondness stirred into the irritation. "Exactly what time are they arriving?"

"'Bout," he mumbles, "an hour."

"An hour!?"

-

Some people possess the ability to appear nonchalant in the face of fear. Newton is not one of these people. In fact the only reason he hasn't bolted is he's holding Agnes' carrier, another one of Anathema's simplistically brilliant ideas. Hard to run off without jostling the baby.

He leans in close to her ear and stage whispers, "there's still time."

"Newton, it's fine."

"They haven't even answered the door," he insists. "We can just run round back-hello!"

Aziraphale nods to them both, "good afternoon," but his polite greeting falls flat when he turns to little Agnes in her carrier. His expression is nearly as queasy as hers after she's had a bit too much split pea puree.

"Aziraphale," Crowley pokes his head over his shoulder, "there a reason you haven't done your little," he wriggles past his side to hold the door open all the way, "good host thing? Yeah? C'mon," he taps two fingers against Aziraphale's shoulder to get him to step out of the way, "you look like you're about to yuck up your tea."

"We don't have to go," Anathema says. Newton turns to her with such blinding adoration Crowley instinctually reaches for his shades.

"No," he waves off the thought. "Bring on the sprog. We can manage a few hours while you two," his eyebrows suggest a few lewd activities, the likes of which brought upon Agnes' appearance in the world, and Newton and Aziraphale blush in kind. "You know the way."

Aziraphale maintains the perimeter while Anathema and Newton set up the baby on the floor. And in this case maintain the perimeter means he hovers just outside the edge of their sitting room and tugs at the ends of his bowtie so tightly it'll take a genuine miracle to undo it when he changes for bed tonight.

Anathema takes out a handwritten note and places it in Crowley's outstretched hand. "Her schedule."

"Sure she wouldn't mind a little deviation or two." Crowley unfolds it and mulls over the short list. "What in heaven's name is a baby exercise?"

"She'll be standing soon," Anathema says. Crowley's mouth drops open in a silent 'o' as he marvels down at Agnes, who's mid-roll onto her back. "You just help her stay upright."

"Oh, I was thinking pilates," Crowley jokes, at least Aziraphale sincerely hopes so.

"Feel free to call if anything happens," Newton says, where anything could be as simple as a burp or as dire as an earthquake.

"Go," Crowley shoos them out of the house. "Just don't do anything I would do." And with that he shuts the door, leaving the two of them alone with the baby.

"This was a mistake," Aziraphale breathes.

"Oh, I-I think they prefer to call her a happy accident," Crowley grimaces. He's dropping onto his stomach in front of Agnes, legs akimbo as he settles so he can pull faces at her while she grabs her feet.

"Not the baby, Crowley." Aziraphale groans. "Alright, yes the baby, but not the baby's existence. The fact that the baby is here. In our home." Aziraphale whirls around with dramatic flair, watching out the window with dismay as Dick Turpin Two pulls out of the drive and turns at the lane. "Oh, and they've gone. This is unacceptable…"

And he trails off when he sees Crowley's shifted positions dramatically. The last time he'd seen Crowley holding a baby was a dark, dank corner of the Ark; and the weight of the grief and distress pulled down any delight he may have been capable of expressing into a grim acceptance. This is just Crowley, back against their plush sofa, knees bent, and a baby babbling in his lap. His godchild, with her wild mane of dark hair and precocious interest in his reptilian eyes.

"Soft," Aziraphale whispers.

"Hm?" Crowley's holding Agnes' hands, gently thumping them against her thighs as she weebles and wobbles but refuses to fall. "What's that?"

"The cottage," Aziraphale exclaims. "It's hardly baby proofed. All those, those pointy corners and sharp… things."

"Hmm, good point."

"Why don't you just keep holding her," he suggests uselessly, as if Crowley will ever let her go, "and I'll go about making things a bit more soft and friendly for little ones."

Crowley doesn't suspect a thing. Granted, Aziraphale does wave his hands over the sharp point of the coffee table to round them out, the metal pokers by the fireplace to turn them into rubber, and every single kitchen cabinet spontaneously grows a child lock around the handles. Not that Crowley's going to let Agnes get even an arm's length away, let alone out of his sight long enough to get into anything even dangerous adjacent.

Aziraphale scoots off to his library and retrieves his tablet of the end table by his favorite reading chair by the window. It's Crowley's own demonic touch that will be his downfall; he designed the most recent generation of readers to include a number of frivolous features, such as web browsers and game apps, in order to subtly tempt users into distracting themselves from the reading they all insist they do on a daily basis. So far Aziraphale has remained the only one on the planet to escape such provocations, most days at least.

He sidles into the kitchen and crouches behind the island counter. There's a clear view into the living room and Agnes' setup in the center of the floor. Crowley's moved, but beneficially, as he cannot see Aziraphale moving so he's properly framed while lying on his back with Agnes sitting on his stomach.

"I should have known," he shakes his head, and taps the giant white button on the screen until he captures a sufficient amount of evidence to prove to himself this truly happened.

-

"You know, my dear," Aziraphale whispers into Crowley's ear while he makes silly faces at Agnes to get her to open her mouth and eat instead of spreading her food across the table, "I'm surprised those two even went out in the first place."

"Might've sent a bit of temptation their way. Keeping up appearances. No one can resist a good Groupon."

Crowley saw to the rise of Groupon after its spontaneous appearance in November 2008. His end of year quota was looking thin, so in a wide reaching effort to irritate adults just looking for a nice dinner with a free appetizer he pushed a system designed to get more bodies into restaurants and extracurricular entertainment facilities in order to fill them to capacity. Wait times increased by fifty percent, and angry driving increased tenfold.

"No one's watching, Crowley."

"And no one is watching you make the weather miraculously perfect every time the mail carrier delivers your tea of the month package, and here we are." He smiles wide at Agnes as she accepts a bite of yams. "See now, I told you your mum's not filling you with crap."

"Crowley," Aziraphale scolds him. "The mail carrier is lovely."

"She's rubbish," he growls. Agnes babbles in a loose imitation. "Right, she's rubbish. Always 'losing' my plant magazines. Ugh." He air quotes with one hand. "After you finish this we'll see what sport is on the telly. You'll get plenty of chances to practice the word. Rubbish, the whole lot of them."

-

In an attempt to stave off the crippling separation anxiety Newton imbibed a few pints during dinner. Several, in fact, to the point where he's just trailing along after Anathema as she leads the way to the front door of the cottage.

"It's quiet," he says.

"It is."

"And they didn't call?" He sways as he leans towards her; she catches him and pats his chest to keep him steady.

"Not once."

"Right," he nods enthusiastically. "It's awful quiet-"

"Newton."

"I had fun," he's lopsided and goofy, and Anathema play-slaps his face. "I did, really."

"I told you it would be alright." She turns towards the door when the latch clicks.

"Shh," Aziraphale holds a finger to his mouth. "Out like a light. Agnes, too."

Newton snorts. Anathema shushes him. "Thank you, both of you. Now I have two babies to take care of tonight."

Aziraphale smiles at Newton helplessly and shares a knowing look with Anathema. "This way. Mind the stairs, Newton."

Aziraphale comes to stand by Crowley's head and presents the scene as if it's his own making. The couch can hardly contain Crowley's limbs, one leg's hanging off the side, the other's propped up over the armrest, and his arm that isn't curled around Agnes' back is bent up to cover his eyes.

Anathema shakes her head. "Cute."

"Oh, don't let him hear you say that," Aziraphale warns. "But if the two of you would like to witness it firsthand, I think we could set a date for dinner in the near future."

Anathema carefully extracts Agnes from Crowley's arms and replaces her with the throw off the back of the couch. "We'd love to."

He chatters quietly with Anathema as they walk to the door, regaling her with tales of food flying and a bubble bath and, most importantly, Crowley's direct role in everything.

"Oh, and not that I think it's a concern," Aziraphale starts wearily, "but he's been trying to teach her to say 'rubbish' all evening, so if that crops up-"

"I feared much worse," Anathema teases. "Thank him when he wakes up."

"I will," he assures her. He nods to Newton, who's drifting from happy drunk to sleepy drunk as he teeters on their front step. There's an undignified squawk and a frantic "angel!" from the other room, and Aziraphale sighs tiredly. "I should go reassure him he hasn't lost the baby before he tries to miracle her back."

"Angel! Angel," Crowley comes tumbling into the front room, skittering to a stop as he collides with Aziraphale's back, "angel, the-the," he snaps his fingers, "baby, the," he clacks his teeth together when his vision catches up with the rest of him as he blinks Anathema and Newton into focus. "Oh."

"I've invited them to dinner," Aziraphale tells him.

"What's that?"

"Dinner, dear. With them." Aziraphale nods in their direction.

"Ah, well, dinner. That's-that's good. Fine then. Dinner." He wanders off, still muttering to himself.

"I think we both need to guide someone to their bed," Anathema sighs.

"Have a good night," Aziraphale hums, and he waits on the step until Newton's poured into the passenger seat and Agnes' carrier is strapped in the back.


	2. Chapter 2

It's the twenty-ninth day of rain, or maybe it's the twenty-eighth. It's difficult enough to track the days above deck, and Crawly and his collection of (certainly demonic and not worthy in God's eyes) children are far below in a small nook off the main storage room. The smell of the animals is at its worst at night before Noah or his family tend to them, and this is how Crawly knows it is not yet day.

Aziraphale could tell him, if he was still on the Ark, but while Crawly holds vigil over the children he watches the skies for the long-promised rainbow to signal the end of the flood. The phrase 'a watched pot never boils' won't be around for another few millennia, and by the time it crops up into common vernacular the time to joke about his forty day fretting will be long past.

Day twenty-nine (or perhaps twenty-eight) is the most difficult day yet. Not to say that any day preceding hasn't been difficult, but the stress of day twenty-eight (or twenty-seven) weighs on his tense shoulders, and the tonnage of the trial only grows heavier.

The children sleep, and he's come to understand this sleep seems to reset them in some unexplainable yet obvious way. He's tempted, of all things, to try it out for himself, but he only has the barest of theories about how a celestial entity such as himself would go about doing that. It'll be decades before he tries, and a century or two after that before he even does it correctly.

And besides, and arguably the most important reason, is someone needs to remain vigilant. He's defied God big time with this stunt, and he can imagine her getting Noah or his brood to finish what she started. Nasty thought, made worse that it isn't outside the realm of possibility. No one likes to have their commands ignored.

However, the youngest child in Crawly's care is making it difficult to remain undetected. She's barely a year, just started standing last week despite the rolling waves, and barely leaves Crawly's side. She's also been inconsolably fussy since early this morning, and what started as some inconvenient but not altogether unwelcome cuddling has developed into an ear shattering wail a few hours into the worst of the smell.

Eight pairs of eyes pop open simultaneously and look to their protector in the dim, demonic lighting of the storage room. Wide eyes. Scared eyes. Eyes that shouldn't know what they know, but they do and Crawly needs to act fast before his charges are found.

The trouble with humans is you can't just snap them into the ethereal plane and expect them to come out the other side looking and acting the same as when they went in. They're too moldable and malleable, especially children. If he'd been able to hide them all there he would have done it a month ago before the world was one giant puddle.

Being a demon, Crawly's good deeds sometimes take on a bit of a chaotic edge. Being the youngest, the smallest, the most helpless, it would be beneficial to the greater good to just- but he can't entertain these thoughts, because in his mind he'd be no better than the beings that put him in this situation in the first place.

Backrubs and shushing don't work, the gentle rocking from the waves and Crawly himself don't either, and his delay is starting to attract attention upstairs. From the deck the cries could be mistaken for a distressed animal, and this has awoken Noah's eldest son. It will only take him two minutes to reach below deck, although a bit of demonic influence can help increase the height of the waves, which will only slow him by another minute.

Sometimes the easiest way to fix something that's broken is to just stop the alarm and pretend things are all right again, even when they definitely aren't. He rests the baby girl on his bent legs and gives his fingers a good snap.

The resulting silence is deafening, at least for the other children.

He still hasn't uncovered the cause of her crying.

And if any of the children were brave enough to ask the answer is yes, Crawly can still hear her loud and clear.

-

Crowley is not hidden away in a small storage room in the Ark. He's in a small, hole in the wall tapas place Aziraphale suggested they visit. His sunglasses, which he's taken to wearing only in public, make it nearly impossible for Aziraphale to tell that he's stopped listening to anything other than the baby screaming at the top of his lungs at one of the corner booths.

Fortunately, his lackluster replies consisting solely of atonal humming does not deter Aziraphale, who is happy to continue keeping the one sided conversation afloat. Or in this case he's enthusiastic to continue, because he has yet to say anything complimentary about the establishment or his fellow patrons.

"I just find it inconsiderate," he whispers. Part of Crowley's face twitches involuntarily. "Oh, I understand the importance of family friendly establishments, but not at the detriment of the other guests. There is such a thing as being overly welcoming, you know."

“Hm.”

"It's just rude, really, to not at least step out and try to console the child," he scoffs. Crowley hums once; Aziraphale falsely takes it as a mild dismissal of his very reasonable complaints. "Don't tell me you're the one doing this."

The sky parts and angels sing as the baby's mother finally picks him up and offers him a bottle. Likewise, Crowley's ears jump back into the present day in time to hear Aziraphale's tone, but not his words. "What's that?"

"And you aren't even listening," Aziraphale huffs.

“Ssssorry,” he gulps so forcefully he nearly swallows his tongue. “Bit hard to, what with the, with the-the,” he gestures behind him vaguely towards the table with the (no longer crying) baby.

“I suppose that’s true.” Aziraphale gives Crowley a more thorough once-over, and a twice and thrice-over when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley waves him off. “Don’t know what ga-erk.”

The reason Crowley’s flimsy lie is aborted so abruptly is the sudden, piercing shriek from the previously placated infant. The reason he doesn’t respond when Aziraphale calls his name is because for all intents and purposes, Anthony J Crowley is no longer in the tapas place. He’s no longer in the present, for that matter, and it’s going to take more than a gentle hand shake to bring him back.

There’s a snap, and Crowley blinks with surprise when he finds their table on the ethereal plane. He looks down at his hands, and then up at Aziraphale, who’s hand is still raised post-snap.

“Crowley, my dear, are you sure you’re alright?”

He exhales noisily. “Fine.”

“Oh, you are not,” Aziraphale sighs. “Won’t you tell me why?”

“Oh, you know,” he shifts around until he’s draped over his chair in a misguided effort to give off an air of nonchalance. The air he’s actually giving off is filled with queasy anxiety with a dash of abject fear. “What, what you sssaid, you know.” He clenches his jaw until his tongue starts to behave. “It’s the, the unwelcoming atmosphere.”

“I believe I called it overly welcoming.”

“Yeahyeahyeah,” he nods. “Dreadful. And, and that decor.” (“The decor?”) “With those awful, the awful sssconces.” He realizes immediately that he’s chosen the worst object to latch onto, his tongue absolutely has a mind of its own right now, but to his credit the restaurant is no longer visible on this plane, and he may have panicked a little bit. “What were those? Art deco or ah, some crazy seventies thing?”

“I think they’re from that blue and yellow store you're so fond of,” Aziraphale hazards. “The big one with the tiny house designs.”

“Ah, right, right. Yuck.” Saying this actually hurts Crowley a little bit, because he’s rather fond of IKEA. He’s the one that added helpful directional arrows to the design and encourages people to actively ignore them. He’s also fond of the apple cookies. “This one might’ve been a swing and a missss.”

“Crowley.” He reaches out a hand, which Crowley takes hold of gladly. Aziraphale chuckles. “I meant to request your sunglasses, dear. You beat me to the punch, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, well,” Crowley ducks his head. After another few seconds, and a comforting squeeze of his hand by Aziraphale, he slips them off and sets them on the table. He also refuses to look up without being coaxed. Aziraphale does this in the one way that Crowley will never be able to resist; fingers tipping his chin up.

“Surely this isn’t because of some tasteless lighting?” This, in this instance, is the tense set around Crowley’s watery eyes.

“Off day. Plant got a few spots overnight and had to be dealt with. You know how it goes.” He mouths a silent cheer when his tongue finally behaves itself. “House salsa wasn’t anything to write home about, either.”

“No,” he smiles. “I can’t say it was. And the wine list is rather disappointing.”

“When’s the last time you didn’t get something off-list? Can’t be this century.”

“No, but I do like to see them give at least a little effort,” Aziraphale strokes his thumb across Crowley’s knuckles, “there’s nothing else bothering you?”

“Nah,” he says breezily. “Why not cut this one short? Try again this evening.”

“I agree to the first,” Aziraphale says with another snap, and they’re thrown back into the restaurant, “but not the second.”

Crowley uses the same motion to wave away the bill and retrieve his sunglasses. “Why’s that? Plans?”

“We have plans, dear, remember? Dinner with the Pulsifer-Device’s?”

“Oh, oh right, right.”

“And Agnes,” Aziraphale adds. Crowley’s delight is undiminished by the addition of his sunglasses. “We’ll have to re-round the corners off before she starts crawling around and getting into things.”

“She’s doing that now?” he marvels. “Guess those exercises must’ve paid off.”

-

Some people (or people shaped beings) are very good at pretending they’re excited to see every guest equally. Crowley is not one of these people (shaped beings). The second Agnes is released from her carrier and laid on the floor he drops down onto his stomach to watch her with the strictest attention.

“See,” Aziraphale mouths to their other two guests. "You two can help me set the table."

Newton is the most guilty of rubbernecking, but no one else in the small dining area is about to cast the first stone. He holds out his arms for them to be loaded with flatware, but Aziraphale waves a hand over the table and four place settings appear. Newton drops his arms awkwardly to his sides. "Guess we're just here to dish."

Aziraphale pulls out a chair for himself and gestures to invite the other two to do the same. "You can't imagine how difficult it was to keep this inside until you could see him for yourself."

"I didn't think you were lying," Anathema says, "but I didn't realize it was like that."

"I know, my dear. Six thousand years and he can still surprise me."

The faint repetition of Crowley, "rubbish, rubbish," makes them all stop to watch him out of the corners of their eyes. Agnes is sitting upright with Crowley still on his stomach before her, beseeching, with his hands open wide behind her in case she decides to tip. She's far more interested in poking at the sunglasses he's shoved up into his hairline than learning to speak. "Honestly, girl, any two syllables with a 'b' sound and I'll call it a success."

"You could always give her some ethereal encouragement, dear," Aziraphale calls to him.

"There's hardly a sense of accomplishment in that, angel." He glares over at Aziraphale, and balks when he finds three pairs of eyes watching him instead of the expected one. "Oi, what's, Agnes, love, that's not really helping," he untangles her chubby fingers out of his hair, and she fusses over the denial of his sunglasses, "fine, alright," he scoops her up and stands, and he drops them onto her face. "Right, as I was saying, oi, what's-"

"They don't really fit her face, Crowley," Aziraphale points out. If he's trying to hide his grin he's doing a terrible job, but he isn't, so the aforementioned job is moot.

Crowley sighs, long-suffering, and taps the side of the shades so they shrink to Agnes' face and grow a little baby-safe cord to keep them on; he also pulls a miracled pair from his jacket pocket and uses his teeth to open the arms in order to slip them on himself. "Can I finish?"

"Of course," Aziraphale says warmly.

"No more interruptions?" The trio around the table nod. "Good. Oi-"

"Are you really going to start all over?" Newton asks. Crowley's face twitches. "Seems like you're losing some of your thunder in the exclamatory portion."

"Unbelievable," Crowley scoffs. "Do you know who I am? Fire? Brimstone? Damnation? Ringing any bells?"

"Crowley," Aziraphale scolds, "they're our guests."

"I-I-I don't see why that means they can be rude to me," he whinges, "seeing as, seeing as I'm the one letting you three faff about while someone entertains the baby."

"And you're doing a great job," Anathema coos.

"I see," he points at all three of them, "I see those smiles, right, you think I've gone soft? Is that it?"

"I think all snakes are soft," Anathema says. "I think it's a saying, something about a snake's soft underbelly."

Crowley puts a hand on his own soft middle and hisses. It loses some power when he's holding an infant with the same sunglasses and wild hair. It loses even more power when said baby tries to imitate him and it comes out as a laugh.

"You might mean the eggs," Newton suggests.

"Ugk," Crowley hitches Agnes up on his bony hip. She babbles in what could be very loosely (if we're being generous) assumed to be the sacred word Crowley's been trying to teach her. "What's that?" He leans in to mine listening and is rewarded with a spit coated cheek. "Yeah, I think you're right, Agnes. They are all rubbish."

"You are quite the terrible influence, Crowley," Aziraphale placates him, knowing full well that it'll irritate more than help.

"I-I don't have to take this, this abuse," he sneers. "We're going in the garden, or-or-or-" he stops himself, glaring, though it's hard to tell if he's glaring at the three patiently waiting for him to speak or some spectral imagining of himself. "Unless any of you think I've gone so soft I can't defend a baby from a rogue Creeping Charlie?"

"I'm sure you'll be fine," Newton says, and such a compliment coming from him makes Crowley's haughty attitude visibly deflate. "Have fun."

"Right." Crowley pivots on one heel and strides towards the back door off the kitchen.

"Oh, dear," Aziraphale calls after him, "don't forget some sun protection."

Crowley snaps his fingers over his shoulder without looking back. It's safe to assume he's miracled a fine layer of sunscreen on Agnes. A pleasant, banana scented summer breeze blows in when Crowley opens the door.

With Crowley safely out of earshot, or at least appearing to be, the trio at the table let out the laughter they've been holding in for the last ten minutes.

"I'm sorry," Newton gasps between laughs, "really I am."

"I'm not," Anathema chokes out. "Oh," she breathes again, "it's more amazing than I could have ever hoped."

"You two held yourselves together admirably," Aziraphale sighs. Anathema and Newton don't have the view into the garden that Aziraphale has, and as a result he's the only one to savor Crowley's middle finger poking up at them through the window over the sink. "He can be very prideful at times. It's in his nature."

"I don't think being good with children is anything to be ashamed about," Anathema says.

Aziraphale smiles warmly as the finger slowly retreats. "Nor do I," he agrees. "I think this is something that is wholly Crowley, pardon the rhyme."

She waves him off, but retaliates in a rather clever way. "I'm sure if you wanted it wouldn't be that hard to adopt,"

"Oh heavens no," Aziraphale laughs. "He may be a saint with children but I am not, ah, well versed, let's say. Thankfully I think he prefers this. Spoiling is an awful lot like tempting isn't it?"

"I suppose," Newton muses, "but I don't know why he thinks he has to maintain some sort of tempter image."

"Six thousand years of old habits are hard to break. He had a reputation to uphold."

"Maybe," Anathema taps a finger on the table, "but you know for a demon I don't really think of him as having anything to do with fire or brimstone or what have you."

"To be fair, my dear, I don't think he's ever had much to do with fire and brimstone and what have you." Excluding a bout with actual hellfire, a flaming Bentley, Aziraphale's bookshop, the great fire ring of the M25, and a rarely mentioned sauntering downwards, Aziraphale is correct. It sounds like quite a lot if it wasn't spread out across six millennia. Crowley averages about one fire and/or brimstone event every thousand years or so, although five years ago was an outlier and probably shouldn't be counted. "He once told me that humans are much better at tormenting themselves than any demon, though he did take credit for a great deal of things throughout history to keep his record looking good and, well, not good, if you want to get technical."

"So he hasn't really done anything all that hellish?" Newton asks.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Aziraphale chuckles. "He's rather fond of things that gently irritate the masses. He's a big thinker, wants to just trend people downwards and let them handle the rest. Makes phone lines busy at peak hours. Mobile games, too, though he's also rather fond of those. He's very pleased with his work on the M25. Made it absolutely dreadful."

"No," Newton marvels with dismay. "He designed the M25? It really is dreadful."

"It is," Aziraphale agrees. "Now, I do love to chat with you both, but why don't we get dinner started?"

-

Aziraphale is a man (shaped being) of many tastes. Specifically, he loves how different food tastes, but he's never turned his love of food into a love of cooking. Putting a hard day's, or at least an hour or two's, work detracts from the decadence of enjoying a good meal. He much prefers dining out.

Though he does love to try things, and he gives the shellfish his best before Newton gently coaxes the knife away and starts cleaning up the shrimp in a way that does not compromise their shape or structure, or anything else that lets one know that it is indeed still a shrimp and not some shrimp flavored substitute. He settles with bustling about the kitchen and retrieving things for the pair while Anathema instructs Newton on her family's paella recipe.

They're somewhere between prepare-the-fishy-bits and cook-the-rice-till-barely-firm when there's a plaintive little wail from out in the garden. Though he is not one of her parents Aziraphale is the one to show the most visible concern. Even Newton only spares the window a glance.

"Should we go out and see if things are alright?" he asks.

Anathema smiles warmly at him. "There's an equal chance she's just screaming for the sake of screaming and not actually upset." But then there's another, longer cry with a distinct edge as it trails off. "She really has been doing remarkably well, considering."

"Considering?"

"She's teething. Getting her first tooth," Newton adds. He's still dutifully cutting up an onion while rapidly blinking his eyes.

"And she's probably getting hungry, or tired, or so hungry she feels tired." She shakes her head. "Babies."

"I'd forgotten you start out life only about sixty percent put together," Aziraphale admits. "I just sort of appeared as is."

"Wouldn't that be nice," Anathema sighs wistfully, and she's right back to her recipe.

However Crowley does not get the crying to quiet down, and the longer they hear Agnes from the kitchen the more often Anathema checks the window for signs of peril.

"Why don't I see if she just needs a diaper change," Anathema says. Newton abandons his station and rushes off to the other room to retrieve Agnes' bag, and after a pleading look Aziraphale motions for Anathema to lead the way so he can follow. "She's probably just fussy."

"Yes, of course," Aziraphale agrees a bit too enthusiastically. "And Crowley, he's really very good at this sort of thing."

Normally Aziraphale would be right, but Crowley is not terribly good at this one particular sort of thing. He can handle hiccups and hunger, brandish a bandage like it's a breeze, and even change the most diabolical of diapers. But Agnes is not hungry nor tired nor possessing a soiled diaper. She's teething, like many babies her age, and he's never had modern medicine by his side to ease the transition from toothless to toothful.

Crowley's made a bit of a maze out of his garden. Not intentionally, but sometimes he likes to sun himself on a giant rock and Aziraphale grew tired of the neighbors calling him about Crowley appearing dead in the garden, or possibly the giant snake in the garden. Either way, he grew tired of being bothered when he was trying to read, so Crowley hid his favorite sunning rock among some tall weeping willows and a few flowering shrubs.

It's because of this that Aziraphale sees Crowley and Agnes first. The initial sight is a relief, as is the lack of any sort of bodily fluid in the vicinity. But he doesn't like the way Crowley shushes her with a panicked insistence ("It's okay, you're okay. Shhhh please, please?"), and when he raises a hand, fingers poised in a snap, Aziraphale calls out.

"Crowley?" He startles and looks to Aziraphale, hand still raised. "What's wrong, dear?"

He's there, panic written all over his face, and then he's gone, with Agnes still hovering in the air where his lap had been.

-

Knowing Crowley so well has its advantages. For instance, when Aziraphale realizes that whatever transpired has upset Crowley in a very visual, visceral way, he knows where to start looking. Some people have more elaborate ways of hiding away when they're unhappy, but whenever Crowley is in a place of great grief and dismay he can be found in their shared bedroom.

This time he's still in his human shape. He's spontaneously manifested himself into his silky black pajamas and curled up rather snake-like on top of his electric blanket. The tense hunch of his shoulders makes Aziraphale's heart ache, and he makes a noisy approach in the hopes of avoiding spooking Crowley a second time. He doesn't know where to start looking if he vanishes from here.

Aziraphale taps Crowley's shoulder and he scoot-scoot-scoots towards the middle of the bed. There's just enough space for Aziraphale to sit behind him, but not without one leg still on the ground for stability. He lets the other stretch along the bed and up against Crowley's quivering back.

"You gave me a little bit of a scare," he tells Crowley lightly, fingers dancing through his mussed hair. "Why, I even had to hold Agnes for nearly half a minute before Anathema caught up to me."

There's a hissy little mumble that adjacently resembles a mournful apology. Aziraphale coos understandably as he settles his hand more firmly in Crowley's hair to give him a good thumb stroking behind his ear.

"She's perfectly fine," Aziraphale adds. "Teething. Nasty process, having to grow teeth through sensitive mouth tissue. Not sure that one was one of the best design choices." He glances up briefly, but no one's bothering to listen to him prattle on about infant teeth development. "Anathema showed me this fascinating little bubbly bracelet she'd put in our fridge along with the food."

"A bubbly bracelet?" Crowley turns his head a few degrees farther than he should be able to in order to look Aziraphale in the eye.

"Yes, well, I guess its purpose is more to be chewed on than to accessorize with. Seemed to do the trick."

"The trick."

"Well, she's stopped fussing over gum pain." Aziraphale taps Crowley's neck by the worst of the turn. "You'll give it a crick, my dear."

Crowley turns into his back and folds his hands over his stomach. He turns his attention to the ceiling, because the ceiling can cast no real judgement unless it falls on him. Given the way he's feeling, he may welcome such a swift trial.

"Do you remember the Ark?"

"Hard not to," Aziraphale says softly, "though I remember it a bit differently than you."

A demon's memory, or an angel's memory for that matter, is not flawless. Much like the average commuter will forget their drive to work unless something remarkable happened, both Aziraphale and Crowley have large stretches of relative nothingness that their brains refuse to hold onto. It's for the best. Having a human shaped brain means it can truly only hold so much before capacity becomes a bit of an issue. However there is one key difference. Those memories that helped to shape their experiences on Earth, or sometimes were really just that awful, are etched into their limbic systems, readily available, and unaltered by time.

"The youngest one, little girl about," he shrugs, "young. Very young."

"A baby?"

"Yeah, yeah, a baby," he sighs wistfully. "Might've stretched a bit too thin with that one. Hard to stay hidden when one of your brood is sscreaming at the top of their lungsss." He swallows thickly. "Had to, to-to," he mimes a snap with one hand, and slowly drops it back to his stomach.

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale soothes his fingers by the crinkles around his eyes. "I had no idea. I'm sorry you had to endure that."

"Filters a bit different through the, the plane, you know. Pitch gets a little wiggly."

"How long?"

"A day. Two." He shrugs, feeling anything but casual about the admission but wanting to brush it off anyway. "Teething. Ugh. Did downstairs have a hand in that one?"

"I wouldn't know." Aziraphale smooths Crowley's hair back off his forehead once, twice, continuing when Crowley leans into the touch. "Was it teething back then? In the Ark?"

"Sssuppose sso," Crowley sighs. "Couldn't find anything else wrong. Hm. Didn't have any bubbly bracelets back then. Things sorted themselves out eventually."

"I did what I could from where I was," Aziraphale says hesitantly. "I'm sorry I couldn't do more."

"Were you flying around for forty days?"

"Not all of it," he admits. "Upstairs wanted in person updates. God wanted her plan finished since a certain someone intervened." He beams down at Crowley, bright as the sun. "I sent you blessed thoughts. The best ones I had."

"Blessssed," he bites the tip for his tongue, "blethed thoughts?"

"Just some general things. Good health. Unspoiled food. Restful sleep."

"Kids were in miraculously good spirits most days." He tips his head so it lands in Aziraphale's open palm and rests there. "Thank you, angel."

"I wish I could have done more."

"Nah. Hard for a certain someone," he jerks his chin upwards, "to miss when one of her angels does anything when most of the world is water."

"Quite right," he huffs out a breath and they settle into a comfortable silence. At least for a few seconds. "Is it the crying that upsets you?"

"Babies cry," Crowley gives as a non-answer. "Th-th-the duration. The length of it, yah, I suppose that'll do it."

"The tapas place," he gasps. "I should have seen the signs."

"Didn't want you to."

"Well, that's certainly beside the point. I hate to tell you, but you're not exactly subtle." Crowley puts a hand on his heart and pouts up at Aziraphale, appearing very wounded for having to endure such a harsh truth. "No one's faulting you for it, my dear."

"I am."

"I know. You're always your second most harshest critic." He pulls one of Crowley's hands up and kisses the first knuckle on each of them. "I'd love to stay here with you, but should get back to our guests."

He blinks. "They haven't gone?"

"No, and I'm fairly certain Agnes is looking for you. Keeps trying her best to see into other rooms, looking for snakey men and their funny eyes." He leans down to kiss Crowley's temple, right over his little tattoo.

"Right, yeah, should go entertain." He's looking fairly queasy at the idea of leaving the bedroom any time this century.

"They won't fault you for staying in bed."

"Y'think so?" He checks, and Aziraphale nods. "Maybe a bit longer."

"Take your time. As long as you need." Aziraphale stands and grabs the corner of the comforter underneath Crowley and miracles it through his body to cover him up properly. Crowley stares up at him with the most blatant, needy look he can manage until Aziraphale gives his best impression of someone very put upon by the task of giving Crowley a chaste kiss. He does it anyway. "Old serpent."

"That's me."

"Well, if you'd like to be a bit more snakey when you join us I have an open pocket."

"That right?" Crowley hooks a finger in said pocket and leans up to see inside. "Hmm, roomy."

-

Dinner is already served when a little red bellied snake slithers its way over to the table and tickles at Aziraphale's ankle with its tail. He bends down and offers Crowley a hand. Crowley surprises him, however, when he bypasses the offered pocket and winds his way up Aziraphale's arm and onto the table.

Agnes shrieks with delight at the wriggly new addition to their table setting and smacks her chubby hands on the tray, sending her food rattling across it and onto the floor. Or at least nearly on the floor, but it miraculously lands with the bowl upright and all the food still contained inside.

Newton picks it up carefully, regarding it with the same respect one uses when they're handling a sacred object. "I really wish we could do that."

"You could," Crowley projects to them. He raises his tiny head up to address Newton directly. "I could be a little house snake." He drops back down and slithers onto Agnes' tray. The others hold their collective breaths as Crowley settles into a loose coil and tastes the air in front of him. "Smells good."

"It's my mother's recipe, oh, Agnes no!"

Agnes hasn't had much experience with small creatures, but the ones she has encountered she's been very curious about but unafraid. Today she's gotten a bit bolder than normal and decided to pet Crowley's sleek head, though pet may be an understatement of the force she's selected to bring her hand down for said pet.

"Got her," Newton says, and he grabs her hand before it can make contact a second time. "Sorry, Crowley."

"S'fine," is what he says, but he bumbles away to rest by Aziraphale's hand and pulls himself into an unhappy little pile. "Think I'll stay as this house's snake, though."

"Poor dear," Aziraphale coos. He slides two fingers over Crowley's head and down the first few rows of scales on his back. Crowley appears Very Disgruntled by the whole ordeal. "Well, she isn't afraid of you in the slightest, it seems."

"I think we'll wait a few years before we consider getting pets," Anathema says. "I think pet and hit are a bit too close for her still."

"Good to know," Crowley grumbles. He adjusts himself so Aziraphale's fingers can reach a bit further down his back. His little tongue tastes the air above Aziraphale's plate of paella and he slips out of his coil to circle the plate. "Really does smell good. Spare me a shrimp or two, angel? For my suffering, you see."

"I'm not going to watch you hork it down like this," he quips. "Honestly, you don't even need to eat. I don't see why you insist on inhaling it in a single bite instead of savoring it."

"Better than taking a half hour to eat two bites." Crowley looks to their guests, who both offer up nothing more useful than a shrug. "Fine." He offers up a section of his middle for Aziraphale to grab. "Let me down so I can steal your food properly."

"My, what a convincing temptation," Aziraphale teases, but he does as Crowley asks and lowers him to the floor. One second there's a little snake hightailing it out of the kitchen, and the next there's Crowley coming back in the same door.

"Now, where were we?" he moseys over and drops himself into the chair between Aziraphale and Agnes. Crowley plucks a single fat shrimp off Aziraphale's plate and pops it into his mouth, giving it a courtesy chew or two before swallowing it whole.

Agnes babbles at him, something like, "rubb-bbb," and a giggly hiss.

"Oh, don't you start criticizing my eating too," he leans over and boops her nose. "I'm not going to start taking notes from someone who-who, who can't even be bothered to grow her teeth in until now."

"I do think that was downstairs' doing," Aziraphale points out.

"Wasn't mine, I can tell you that." 

"I can get you a plate," Newton offers, interjecting. "We might have gone a bit overboard."

"I've got a plate," he says, casually gesturing to Aziraphale's food. Aziraphale side-eyes him before scooting his plate a hair further from Crowley's grabby hands. "Oh, come on, angel-"

"We can get you a small plate, dear."

"You-you-you, you invited them over as our guests and now you're going to make them endure waiting for you to finish?" He gapes at Aziraphale, at how much of his plate is still full of paella, and back to Aziraphale again. "You tell me to savor it, gah, if we use your usual place we'll be eating that for the next century."

"You slept for a century. I don't see why I can't eat something delicious for one."

"Oh," Crowley groans, "that's, that's completely different. For one thing, I didn't have an alarm. Two- now stop laughing! You're going to make the girl think she can't take me seriously."


End file.
